


The Shadows Beneath

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadows Beneath

**Author's Note:**

> Tag to 'Tao of Rodney.'

Of all the nightmares the Pegasus Galaxy's gifted to him, it's a dream of sleep that most often closes its fist around his lungs, cools his skin, rattles his heart. He dreams of Rodney in gray-white scrubs, lax against an Ancient plinth, palms turned upward in supplication. Sleep shows on his face, in the spill of his limbs, the shadows beneath his eyes, muscles smooth beneath gentle unconsciousness, breathing –

\- and _there_ ; the claws sheathed in his memory.

There is no breath in the body he sees, no heart beating wild, no voice to answer when he shouts and struggles against Ronon's grip to cross the five feet of space that holds him fast. The air feels thick, an obstacle resisting his every movement, and his friends _do nothing_. Crystals grow dusty while they shake their heads; a screen glows gold with the schematics of Rodney's death.

He wakes, choking, gasping, still held fast.

"John. _John_."

There are hands on his arms, fingers curled into his biceps. "I gotta – Rodney's . . . "

"I'm right here."

He blinks, struggles to focus. "The – machine . . ."

"We figured it out. Nothing happened to me."

"Nothing - . . ."

"I promise."

John recognizes the sweat-sharp scent of Rodney's skin long before wakefulness grants him lucidity again; trusts the thumb brushing through the hairs at the back of his neck, the voice murmuring softly before his brain kicks in and he can slump back into conscious shame. "Fuck," he whispers.

Rodney presses his lips against John's forehead – not a kiss so much as a simple, grounding touch. "I'm right here," he murmurs.

John shifts, curls, winds himself into Rodney's space, tangles their limbs until he can feel Rodney's breath against his cheek – even breathing, nothing like his own, nothing like the aching emptiness of his dream. "Bad dream," he says, voice raw.

"I gathered," Rodney says, voice a shade sarcastic.

John swallows. "Just – don't go," he mumbles.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't – not . . . "

"John." A hand skims down his back – again and again. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Me too."


End file.
